


Adagio

by berrykeith



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 08:58:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15682176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berrykeith/pseuds/berrykeith
Summary: A short love story





	Adagio

**Author's Note:**

> A postmodernist work - or so it tries to be.

I awoke slowly, as if I hadn’t slept at all, like I had simply been resting on soft grass with my eyes closed and my body unmoving, then, when I was ready to open my eyes, I did.

I was not on soft grass.

I was on my floor. The dirty white ceiling appeared higher here on the piece of thin foam I set up in my apartment kitchen as a makeshift bed for you last night, when you showed up on my doorstep at 2:44AM, while all my neighbors were asleep and all my neighbors’ dogs, wide awake.

-I. Love. You.

I would have had you know, Keith, if I wasn’t the kind of person I am - the kind who loathed unnecessary overcomplications, that:

 **first,** I did not like how you broke that sentence up like that when you said it, because I could not tell where the stress was, and it bothered me, because, did YOU love me, did you LOVE me, or did you love ME? I could not tell at all. I get that you were short of breath, and you probably ran here and you were probably drunk or high, but if you were gonna say shit like that, I just wish you said it better;

 **second,** I did not like how you had your eyes closed when you said it, as if you were saying “I wet my bed” or “I broke the vase” or “I cheated in the exam” or “I sinned”, as if telling me you love me (or you /love/ me, or you love /me/) was the most shameful thing; and

 **third,** I did not like you, but rather loved you. I would actually jump off a bridge for you if you asked, and knowing you, with that knowledge, you’d ask me to jump and volunteer to push. And I would so fucking let you; but

 **fourth,** I did not like unnecessary overcomplications, and was the kind of person that I was, so I did not have you know anything, and in fact, said only these few words in reply to your shitty attempt at a confession that you’ll forget about or act like you’ve forgotten about the next day:

-You’re drunk. Come'on.

Like always, I took you inside, I offered you a glass of water to drink and spill down your shirt, I laid out that lame piece of foam for you, I wrapped you in the blanket I liked the most, and I did not tell you that I loved you.

Unlike always, you grabbed my wrist when I brushed off the hair your sweat glued to your forehead, and you pulled me down, and you kissed me.

Your tongue tasted like gin and your short breaths, of desire.

I hated gin, you know, but this was the first time my tongue had ever grazed the lies you have not yet said and in this angle, the next I love you (or I /love/ you, or I love /you/) you will tell me drunk or high, the “I was just hanging out at a friend’s house” you will try to sell to your parents when you get home, the “We’re just friends”, the next few lies, the lies that have not yet formed in your mouth - they all had the capability to be real, e.g. you could really love me, even if deep down, I knew you’d never.

So, fuck the gin, I thought, I will linger in your mouth amidst this sweet bitterness that makes my throat shiver, because when your I love you and the I love you that I balanced on the tip of my tongue met, love was real. In our adagio of tongues, we loved each other. We encased our love in our chapped lips.

-I…

But, of course, you had to come up for air.

-…love you

And, just like that, the lie took it’s place between our bodies, and our love escaped it encasing to scatter itself amongst the thick, hot air. I caught the stress this time. I love /you/.

I love /you/.

I held your jaw in my hands so I’d see your face better. The streetlight outside gave your face an orange tint. Your breath still came in short, wanton pants, but this time, so did mine.

This time, when we sat face to face in each other’s arms, we sat as ourselves, no longer as lovers but as friends crossing boundaries, and the conversation that we had after, was no longer the litany of lies of the things I want to hear, because you were in the state of drunkenness now where bursts of honesty slipped out from you.

I asked:

-Who?

-You…

-Hmm? Who?

-YOU.

You pulled me close. I took an embarrassingly short time to comply, shameless, coming so close to you we were nose to nose; our breaths mingled with each other.

I whispered:

-Who am I?

God, I regret that question. I just knew. I just. Fucking. Knew. what you were gonna say next.

-Hmm?

-Who am I, Keith?

(I motherfucking knew.)  
(I motherfucking knew.)  
(I motherfucking /knew/.)

-Shiro.

My name was James Griffin.

-Keith, I think..

-I mean, shit, I mean James.

Oh my god. How absolutely (sad) hilarious. You actually corrected yourself. You are so (beautiful) lame, you know? I really want to (kiss) punch you. You absolute (shit) shit.

-James, I love you, I love you, alright, I–

Fuck it, though, yeah? Fuck the hell out of it. I basically smashed our lips together. The I love you on my tongue was now a fuck you, but the breaths I sent your way was a fuck me, a kiss me harder, a please, if you won’t fucking love me, fucking pretend for the night, because it’s the least you can fucking do for all the fucking shit you put me through, an I still. Really. Fucking. Love you. You. Piece. Of. Fucking. Shit.

-Touch me.

I said.

And you did.

-Kiss me there.

I said.

And you did.

-Please.

I begged.

-Yes!

I said.

-Oh!

But, then…

-I love you, James.

What’s a liar doing in my bed?

-I hate your guts.

There’s two liars in this bed.

-Fuck!

-Fuck!

-Fuck!

And again, and again, and again…

Then, I am on my floor.

The dirty white ceiling appeared higher here on the piece of thin foam I set up in my apartment kitchen as a makeshift bed for us last night.

-I’m so sorry.

Thanks for your fucking note.

**Author's Note:**

> dont @ me
> 
> this was recycled straight from my old journal


End file.
